


i could make it holy, make it fine

by philliam



Series: make it holy [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Kissing, M/M, P5R Spoilers, Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philliam/pseuds/philliam
Summary: Goro can't believe his first marrital dispute will be about the plastic cat dolls in front of their café whereas Akira is a simple man with simple needs like laying out black napkins and wearing a dress.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: make it holy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811320
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	i could make it holy, make it fine

**Author's Note:**

> again, my jam for this series is [make it holy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GT4IC9fgxiw) by the staves

“Quick, don’t think. Black or red?”

“The napkins stay blue. Now shut up and don’t move.”

Black ends fall to the ground with each _snip snip_ of Goro’s scissors. He tips Akira’s head back with a knuckle to check that his hair is the same length. Not that anyone could tell if it wasn’t once his hair dries into its usual curly mess. Goro assumes Akira gave him this task just to have an excuse to stare at his face from close-up—as if he doesn’t do it at any given chance anyway regardless of day or time.

That is the luxury of living in a place they feel comfortable enough to lower their defences. Goro is still trying to learn calling such a place home.

Warm hands roam over his legs, demanding his attention. “What are you thinking about?” Akira asks and presses his chin into his belly, looking up. After seven years, his features have grown sharper and more elegant like the dagger he used to wield. Sometimes Goro looks at him and the sight of beautiful, beautiful Akira Kurusu steals his breath.

“That you look like a twelve-year-old after shaving.” He pushes Akira’s wet hair out of his face and flicks his forehead, then steps out of his grasp. He crosses their bathroom to take the broom leaning against the wall in the corner, only to unceremoniously drop it in Akira’s lap. “Now clean your mess. I’m done.”

He leaves the room before hearing a response, brushing off stray black hair from his shirt and pants. Now he has to vacuum again. Why Akira asked him to cut his hair instead of booking an appointment with a professional is beyond him, but it does remind Goro, as he tugs at the end of his ponytail tickling the nape of his neck, that he might need a cut as well. The shop stays closed anyway during their preparations, so now seems the best time to get things done they usually can’t while tending to the café. Repairing the creaking floorboard behind the counter, washing the dark, vintage curtains hanging in their back office. Even though Akira is against it, they need to sort out which maneki-neko lining the front of their entrance they want to keep and which to throw away. He can’t believe his first marital dispute will be about dusty plastic cats.

The blow drier starts in the bathroom. Akira’s head peeks around the corner, the hot air whipping his hair left and right. “Goro, can you check the mail? Ann’s postcard might have arrived.”

Goro shoos him away like a fly. On his way to the stairs leading down to the café—a feature Akira insisted on during their apartment hunting to pay homage to his old home—he passes their kitchen where he puts a kettle on the stove for another round of coffee. So far, he’s only had benefits to be engaged to one of Tokyo’s most popular barista.

Leblanc is abandoned and quiet. He won’t ever admit it oud loud, but he’s glad Akira didn’t change the name after inheriting the business from Sojiro. Anything different would have been blasphemous. But while it is the same name, Leblanc’s replica lives with touches that scream Akira’s name. Bookshelves line one wall opposite the entrance, filled with every book he’s read during Highschool. Customers come and pick one and in return leave a book they have at hand, constantly switching up the collection. Then there’s people complimenting the amazing replicas of famous contemporary artist Yusuke Kitagawa on the walls, asking Akira where he bought them. But if Akira is known for his delicious coffee, he’s famous for his secrets.

Opening their post box, bills and two cards fall out. The first shows The Louvre lit at night. Ann’s curly handwriting is unmistakable, leaving a short message that she’ll arrive a day before the ceremony. The other card has a simple flower design and one word on its back.

_Congratulations. — M._

Goro stares at it for a solid minute. It’s been long since he’s seen this handwriting, but he does remember it from torn-out diary pages inside a place that had blindingly white walls and tasted of despair and bitter endings. He takes everything upstairs where he finds Akira with dried, adorably messy hair.

“I didn’t know you still hang out with Dr. Maruki,” he says, voice neutral as he drops the cards and bills on the table where Akira has already spread out coffee and biscuits from Haru’s shop. He considers the card, absentmindedly stirring his cup. “I don’t. Sumire might have told him.”

“Not that I really care.” Goro drinks from his cup, eyeing Akira from the side. He’s draped over his chair like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. “He’s not invited.”

“I doubt he’ll come. Wouldn’t be too much fun if you stabbed him with the cake knife.”

Goro snorts, but the image does bring a faint grin out of him. It is a time though he doesn’t think too fondly of; a time when he’d felt too much at once and too little words managed to express that. He remembers when Loki and Robin merged into Hereward and the surprise that Robin never really left his side, always with him; the light, the good, the innocent and childlike fantasy to become a hero one day. The night he spent under Akira’s covers; limbs entangled, secrets and fears shared in quiet whispers, thumbs wet from drying tears both pretended were never shed.

After they defeated Maruki and destroyed the Happy World, Goro woke up in his bed, dizzy and disoriented, still sore from the fight. While staring at his white ceiling, he counted his heartbeat. Every thud in his chest was like a bird trying to take flight out of an ebony cage no one built a door into. He’d only have to tear his chest open and it would be free. It would return to where it longed to be, a little café tucked away in Yongen-Jaya.

Instead, Goro got out of bed, donned his winter uniform and went to meet Sae Nijima to discuss the terms of proving Shido’s guilt and his arrest. Again. He spent half a year in juvenile hall until Akira paid his bail with the remaining savings from their Mementos ventures.

“You’re crazy,” Goro had said when he met Akira outside, everything he used and owned during those six months shoved into a single plastic back.

“I missed you,” Akira had replied and now, seven years later, they’re doing what Goro never allowed himself to dream of; never showed interest in until meeting Akira Kurusu.

“Will our suits be ready?” he asks now, downing the rest of this coffee. He usually hates when it gets cold, but Akira’s blend is still enjoyable.

“I’ll check my e-mails later. They should have replied by now.” Akira watches him, tapping a slender finger against the kitchen desk. “I still think one of us should wear a dress.”

“You also think we need a champagne pyramid which we can’t afford.”

“Okay, perhaps not that,” says Akira. “But I would make a radiant bride.”

Goro doesn’t doubt that. If he takes an afternoon off and searches long enough, he’ll surely find the drag cop outfit somewhere in the attic—a real attic, this one—from all those years back. Maybe he can ask Akira to wear lipstick again when it’s time to seal the deal during the ceremony. He can’t think of anyone who would object to that.

“That’s your cue to say ‘Truly’.” Akira carries both empty mugs to the sink, a slight pout adorning his face. Goro rolls his eyes. He waits until he passes him on his way out to hook a finger through a belt buckle and pulls Akira with a sharp tug on his lap. He blinks in fake innocence. “Oh?”

“I prefer you looking good in a dress stays between us,” Goro says, shimmying his hands under Akira’s shirt—wrong, Goro’s shirt—where they rest on warm, soft skin.

Akira thinks about it. “What do I get in return?”

“No divorce papers.”

“Ever so generous.”

“It’s a deal then.”

On cue, Akira’s head bends and finds Goro’s mouth. Kissing Akira is still the same as seven years ago: hot, addicting. Like breathing air for the first time after staying underwater for hours. His hands roam over spots he knows where bruised long, long ago and Akira reacts like they never disappeared. Like they never left the Metaverse. Still sixteen and eighteen and too busy bruising their knuckles and knees fighting for their own justice instead of settling down and taking their time unravelling each other. It still manages to untie a tight knot within his chest. He could spend all day kissing Akira. He _should_ spend all day kissing Akira.

One, two, three tugs on his ponytail and Goro reluctantly relents to free Akira’s bottom lip from between his teeth.

“We should give you a cut as well,” Akira says, curling the end around a finger. Goro shows his surprise by raising one eyebrow.

“You’d be okay with that?” he asks. He’s started to believe Akira’s fixation on his hair—drying it after a shower, braiding it when he’s bored, burrowing his hands in them when he cums—is a religious thing, though the prospect of it being short, feeling the cool breeze on the back of his neck during summer and not bothering to brush it every hour to untangle any knots, is appealing.

Akira wears a dreamy sort of look—though, no. That’s just him being horny, probably imagining Goro with shorter hair and all new discoveries it might bring as he gently scrapes his scalp. It’s as good as any answer. He pushes Akira off his lap and rises as well, turning left and right to stretch and make his joints pop.

“Fine, but if you mess it up, I’m going to shave you bald.”

They share a single look, thinking of the only person they know with a bald head and Goro regrets his words already, hates the face of the man he never wants to remember flashing before his eyes.

Akira takes his hand and squeezes. “I’m going to make you the most handsome man alive, promise.”

He allows Akira to lead him to the bathroom, the objection that his task will be hard so long as he breathes on his lips.

Five more days. Five more days and the most handsome man alive will be his.

**Author's Note:**

> only one chapter to go, then this series is finished and i can crawl back to writing fe3h 🙏  
> see you on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mariya_mey)


End file.
